


Tech Week

by Nymm_at_Night



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Ace Jenna, Awkward Boners, Canon Compliant, Car Sex, Cunnilingus, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, F/M, Hand Jobs, Jeremy and Christine! Are! In! Love!, Michael is suffering, Overstimulation, PWP that became a Character Study that then went back to PWP, Post-Squip, Praise Kink, Shakespeare allusions, She Stoops to Conquer as an extended metaphor for fetishes, Stagedorks, Tech Crew Michael, cheere, give stagedorks a chance please, this is a hot mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-11 01:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12311589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymm_at_Night/pseuds/Nymm_at_Night
Summary: 4 times Christine accidentally indulges Jeremy's praise kink, and one time she knowsexactlywhat she's doing.





	Tech Week

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, I'm done, this fic is done, have fun. Also, drinking game: count the Shakespeare quotations.

Jeremy, Christine thinks, is probably the nicest person she’s ever dated.

Sure, there isn’t much competition between him, Jake, and Billie from eighth grade, who had memorized the first half of Hamlet, but that doesn’t make it any less noticeable— after all, Shakespeare once said “a woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart." But that’s not to say there isn’t anything else to notice about Jeremy— and Christine does! A lot!— from how she can sometimes catch him improvising little songs about what he’s doing when he thinks no one is listening, to the way he lets her tug his hands away from his face so she can see his smile when he laughs. Still, the best thing about him is definitely the way he just... listens.

Christine’s known a lot of people passionate about theater, and Jeremy is too, but there’s never a struggle for words with him, no fighting for a moment to say her mind, and no inevitable awkward change in subject when he gets bored of it and her. He just lets her talk, and talk, and then talk some more, until she’s said her piece and the conversation slips into a sort of comfortable silence.

Maybe that’s why she likes nights like this best. 

It’s tech week, and between rapid fire rehearsals of  _ She Stoops to Conquer  _ that go to midnight, line reads that leave Mr. Reyes pulling out his hair in anxious frustration, and the fact that Michael and the tech crew disappear into the bowels of the supply rooms for hours and emerge at the end of the meetings to clamber into their cars like Jack and Ralph at the end of _ Lord of the Flies _ , Christine’s found a moment of relative quiet. It’s just her, her boyfriend— she thinks he's her boyfriend? They’ve been going out for two and a half months, but compared, to y’know, the rest of their lives that’s so short, and it feels weird to start calling him that out of the blue, but then again, she’s never really been one for labels, and it’s not like there’s a hand book for this or anything?— and the ten boxes of accessories they need to sort before leaving.

Christine hates to admit it, but honestly she’d rather be back on stage sashaying her way through the script. Then again, a true thespian understands the value of the art in front of the stage, and behind it.

Or something. That’s just what Mr. Reyes said before he shoved the pile of boxes at them and wandered off to go forage for hot pockets. Christine tries to keep that in mind, because Mr. Reyes  _ did _ graduate from Juilliard, even if he ended up teaching high school theater in New Jersey, but it’s a little bit tough to do when she’s still stuck facing down the mountain of fabric and trying to remember the difference between a beret and a Tudor bonnet.

Jeremy doesn’t seem to mind though, humming softly under his breath as he methodically pairs off the gloves, safety pinning matching pairs together and flipping them into color coded boxes. It’s a little mesmerizing, the way he snags them out of the pile like a heron, how his bright blue eyes squint and focus under his dark lashes, his teeth biting his lip when he forces the point of the pin through the leather and—

“Christine?”

Christine snaps out of the fuzzy, half asleep whatever she was just doing and looks over at Jeremy’s worried face. “Yeah?” 

“Oh, you just seemed to be… zoning out.” He shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “I uh, yeah... sorry.”

“No, it’s fine!” Christine chirps, putting her hands out in some sort of “stop, you’re cool!” gesture that ends up shoving the hats off her lap, and she snorts as they go scattering across the floor. 

Jeremy laughs a little, and then she’s giggling, because they’re at school at nine on a Monday, sleep deprived and trying to segregate a bunch of nigh-identical hats, and apparently that makes everything hilarious. She scoops up a bonnet— beret? Do berets have brims?— and smooshes it down on his head. It sinks halfway down his nose and the sight of this strange, eyeless creature grinning at her is apparently the funniest freaking thing, because now she’s bent over she’s laughing so hard.

She pulls the hat off again and pecks his cheek, feeling satisfied, because yeah, kissing her sort-of boyfriend whenever she wants, or at least when Rich isn’t there to comically groan and retch at their “Shmoopiness”, is definitely one of the upsides of the whole arrangement. “Sorry, you’re just really good at the whole—” She brushes one palm over the other in a sort of ‘make it rain’ gesture “—thing. Very distracting!”

Jeremy shuffles a little closer, so their knees knock gently together, and smiles down at the gloves. She swears his face is redder than usual, but with Jeremy that’s not saying much, so she just picks up the fallen hats and gets back to work.

That should be the end of it, just a comment and a blush meant to stay in the storage room, left behind there when they go home and forgotten by the time they roll out of their beds in the morning, sleep deprived and ready to spend another ten hours at school.

(It really, really isn’t.)

* * *

_ She Stoops To Conquer _ definitely isn’t Christine’s favourite play, but it’s dumb, old fashioned romcom cheese, and at least this production hasn’t had any zombies inserted into the text or for that matter, the actual production. Hopefully it stays that way, and if she just so happens to be keeping an extra close eye on Jeremy, who’s going to blame her?

She says as such to Jenna at lunch, who laughs a little and gives her that sort of salacious grin that means that she really, really wants to tell everyone in the eastern hemisphere, but won’t. “God, you two are going to give me cavities.”

Christine snorts into her PB&J. “We’re not that bad!”

Jenna shrugs, smirking. “At least you guys haven’t dropped any beakers of acid because you were too busy flirting, so I guess you’re at least better than Dustin and Madeline.”

“Jenna, they dated for one month!”

“But god, what a show!” Jenna’s got that spark in that eye she gets whenever she talks about other people’s complex and usually melodramatic lives. Christine doesn’t think she could ever understand her fascination with picking apart the social channels of society, feverishly charting the movements of their peers, because why watch when you can do, but Jenna stands by it. She says it’s fun, getting to see the chain reactions of life from a bird’s eye view. “I mean, one month of the resident frat boy and the only person in the school more airheaded than Chloe simpering at each other, then bam! Screaming! Crying! Madeline grabbing his flask, drinking all of it, and shouting about how even the beer goggles didn’t make his flat ass any less concave!”

She sighs contentedly. “A real life application of Coulomb’s Law. Seriously, it was one for the textbooks.”

Christine smiles. Jenna’s been… brighter is really the best way to describe it, since the SQUIP. It’s not like they didn’t know each other before, but she’s been more social, sitting with Christine and everyone else and actually joining in on the conversation, even when it isn’t just about gossip. “You’re going to be a fantastic NSA agent, Jenna— although I can kind of see you blackmailing anyone into a job offer? Maybe you’d become an information broker? Actually don’t, that’s super illegal!”

“Hah! The NSA wishes they could get me. I’m going CIA,” Jenna grins devilishly. “Better dental.”

Christine actually snorts. “The real question is, are you going to use your spooky Patriot Act powers to get me bootlegs?”

“Hah! With the cash I’ll be making, hell, I’ll take you to see the actual shows!”

Christine presses her hand to her forehead dramatically, leaning back far enough that she almost falls off the chair, because big gestures are easier for the audience to read. “Jenna, I’m swooning! Look at me, practically your Bond Girl!”

Jenna laughs, bemused. “Not quite. I’m Q, you’re Bond, and Jeremy’s the Bond Girl, let’s face it. If you’re swooning over anyone, it’s him.”

Christine feels her face heat up, and Jenna just looks more entertained. “C’mon, Christine. You’re in  _ looove. _ ”

“I—” Jenna raises an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s only been two months, I don’t know!”

“If you say so,” Jenna says, and shrugs. “I’m not really the person to ask.”

Christine doesn’t really know what to say to that, but she’s saved from having to find the words by heavy footfalls and the sudden appearance of Rich as he jumps on and then slides across table. “Ask what?”

“Uh—”

“Rich, quit running so fast!”

Jeremy runs up to the table, panting, and Michael trails after him, sipping one of his slushies idly. Christine’s not really sure how he manages to get those for lunch, pristine and unmelted, considering that the only fridges in the area in the culinary arts classroom and the teacher’s lounge, but there it is. Michael slides it to her as he sits down, Jeremy next to him, and Christine takes a sip. 

Huh. Cherry.

“Good choice,” She says. “I still think the watermelon is better though.”

Michael makes a face. “You stop that Cumberland Farms bullshit this instant.”

“Ugh, fine,” Christine agrees, because while she is 100% ready at any given moment to argue slushie discourse, she isn’t going to give Jenna and Jeremy the satisfaction of watching it. The betting pool on who won each argument had been a step too far, if she’s being honest.

“So,” Jenna says, sitting up straighter so Christine can see her over Rich, who’s taken to nabbing french fries off Jenna’s plate when she isn’t looking. “I don’t want to sound like a total bitch, but uh… does anyone know what Mr. Reyes is doing with tech week? Because tech’s a mess right now.”

Rich shrugs. “I don’t know, I’m just supposed to show up and run around like the dapper little scamp I am. After all—” He bats his lashes theatrically, putting on some sort of falsetto— “who better to play the dashing Tony McFuckfaceton?”

“Rich, stop being a primadonna—”

“Can’t!”

Michael sighs. “Jenna’s got a point though. I had to program the sound system myself, which was… not great. Is it like this all the time, Chris?”

Christine bits her lip. It’s tempting to join in the community bitching session, because that’s honestly Middleborough’s favorite pastime, but it feels kind weird complaining about Mr. Reyes when she’s his designated “teacher’s pet”.

“Well… yes?” She says diplomatically. “I mean… I think he studied as an actor, so stage management isn’t his forte? And after A Midsummer’s—”

“Trainwreck?” Rich supplies.

“You weren’t even there, Rich,” Michael scoffs, rolling his eyes. “It was pretty good for a school play. Aside from all the zombies. And fighting, and… yeah.”

Jeremy grimaces. “I’m really, really sorry I ruined it.”

“The man is dead,” Michael consols, patting his shoulder. “I think we can let it go.”

“Yeah,” Christine nods and pushes the memories aside, because thinking about the weeks of rehearsals and planning and work going to waste because of a robot uprising just gets her angry and stressed. “Anyways, if you want, we— I mean, me and Jeremy— can go talk to him about it. The management stuff, I mean, unless there’s any other issues?”

“M-me?” Jeremy looks sort of like a startled bird, like a corvid that just had an air horn go off next to it. The black sweater— the one with the stars knitted in with oil-slick-iridescent yarn, that she got him for Hannukah after seeing the telescope and star charts in his room— really pulls together the panicked crow look. “But Reyes hates me!”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“Christine, he spent all of auditions glaring at me!”

She scoffs. “He just doesn’t like good actors because they make him feel invested in making the plays actually decent, and then when he wants to make something that’s good he gets stressed and starts thinking about Juiliard and… yeah. I think that’s just how his face is, anyways? It’s a scowl of reluctant paternal affection.”

Jeremy looks unconvinced. “Christine, that implies I’m actually good?”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then Rich starts cackling so hard he has to flip onto his back. Jenna yelps as his arm nearly crushes what's left of the communist fry system they’ve inadvertently set up, and Michael narrowly dodges a scarred hand.

“Jeremy, you’ve got the lead role for a reason,” Jenna says, fries clutched to her chest as the dust settles. “And it’s not just because barely anyone tried out.” 

“Yeah dude, you that thing Christine does where she changes her voice a little, and the whole—” Michael squares his shoulders and sits up straight, which is honestly a little disconcerting— “posture thing.” 

“Guys, I—”

“Jeremy,” Christine says, standing on tiptoe so she can place a hand on his shoulder. His eyes snap to meet hers, and she can’t help but preen under the undivided attention. “You’re an excellent actor, and Mr. Reyes appreciates your ability to play characters with very opposite character traits believably and with nuance, even if he hides it under a hot pocket kink and falsetto.”

There’s a blush creeping across his face. It looks kind of cute.

“Anyways, he respects you, so he’ll listen when we go talk to him at practice tonight.” Christine smiles, hoping it looks reassuring. “Okay?”

“Okay, okay, just never make think of Mr. Reyes’ sex life again,” Jeremy says, face buried in his hands. Christine nods and sits back down, mission accomplished.

Michael squints at her, then at Jeremy, then at her again. There’s something funny in his expression, but Christine can’t for the life of her figure out what it is.

She shrugs and takes the juicebox Jeremy’s offering her. Lunch goes on

* * *

She knows what’s going on. It’s Wednesday, and the Friday opening night is creeping closer and closer, and Jeremy’s been tripping over his own feet, staring at empty spaces, and generally falling apart halfway through his lines.

Part of her’s annoyed, because they’re two days from performing and even if the talk with Mr. Reyes went well, Jenna still hasn’t gotten the blocking right, and they really need to get as much practice in as possible, and this is the worst possible time for any of Jeremy’s… issues to act up, but she tries her best to ignore that frustration. She takes a deep breath, counts backwards from ten, and lets it go.

Christine wants life to be easy. She wants to wake up in the morning and not have to take pills so she can focus, to go to a school where the other kids don't call people gay for taking a goddamn afterschool program, and have a boyfriend who doesn’t jump at his own shadow. 

But life isn’t easy. There's no magic switch to fix these things, and Christine knows that. Life isn’t easy, and sometimes Jeremy isn’t easy, but that doesn’t mean either of them aren’t worth it.

She tries to hold onto that thought as she watches Jeremy glare at the wings, fingers jerking and spasming as he grits his teeth.

It’s hard seeing him like this, and it’s hard a lot of the time to be around him on his low days, which makes far too much guilt well up. It’s not her fault, but it’s difficult knowing in some stupid, roundabout way she’s the reason he took the pill, the reason he’s like this. Maybe if she had stopped pining over Jake in front of him— she still cringes at how she practically serenaded him in front of him, because ouch— and actually listened to the thing literally everyone else noticed, maybe the pain wouldn’t have been so bad, bad enough that he thought he’d have to take a pill to make her care. She knows how it feels to chase someone’s affection and never feel like it’s enough, and the thought of Jeremy dealing with that makes something cold harden in her throat.

It sucks, the fact that some days she can’t look at him without regretting so much. 

But then again, the course of love never did run smooth.

She knows Michael is better at this. He’s got this whole easy smile, relaxed demeanor thing going on that could lure anyone into a sense of security, but Michael is neck deep in wires as he and Jenna try to untangle the sound room, even though it’s the dinner break, so it’s just her now.

Christine sits at the other end of the empty stage and watches Jeremy pick through his bag of McDonalds, occasionally lifting his head to glance around the auditorium, wide eyed. After a few minutes of chewing on his fries morosely, he stands, scoops the Happy Meal up, and walks quietly out the stairwell door.

Christine steels herself and follows him out.

The sun has been setting later and later, but it’s still not really back to normal yet. It’s just starting to brush the black silhouette of the trees outside, and its magenta light is thrown all over the staircase through the big, drafty windows. Jeremy’s sitting at the bottom of the first flight, pushed against the railing like he’s trying to make himself smaller, the sunset outlining him in orange and pink.

“Hey,” She says, sitting next to him on the steps. She lifts her arm, and Jeremy nods, letting her wrap it around his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Jeremy nods. “Sorry. Just having a loud day.”

Christine returns the nod, because she doesn’t really know what to say. Her head is a mess a lot of the time, especially when she’s off her medication. It’s always been like that, frantic, racing thoughts and so much to think about and too little focus for any of it, but it’s never been _ loud  _ per se. She’s only ever heard the whispers during that one fateful performance, and they’ve never resurged like Jeremy’s. Maybe it’s a matter of time and compatibility with the programming, or maybe its just a difference so deeply ingrained it might as well be genetic, but that’s just the way it is for them. 

She doesn’t know why things are like this, but she does know that Jeremy calms down when he can tell someone’s there, even if he can’t see them, so she unhooks one of his hands from his sweater and takes it, running her fingers over his knuckles. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I-I’d like it if you, uh, stayed. Sorry, I know Reyes wants you for a line read and it’s okay if you can’t or don’t want to, but I’d like that.” Jeremy swallows, looking guilty. “Please.”

Christine winces, because Mr. Reyes wants her to meet Rich on stage to hone the blocking on a few scenes, and her flitting off to cuddle her boyfriend is probably not going to help the strained, stressed soprano Mr. Reyes has taken on as the deadlines pile up. For a long, long moment she wants to go, lose herself in Kate’s role and forget for just a little while the stress and difficulty of it all, but then she looks at Jeremy, so, so tired, and thinks that they can wait a little longer.

“Sure.”

Jeremy smiles, and leans his head on her shoulder, and slips an arm around her waist. Christine can’t help the way her lips twitch up at the edges, and she sighs, watching the sun slink slowly below the treeline. It’s tough, staying still when there’s so much to do, but she still holds onto his hand and watches the shadows move across the steps.

After what feels like forever, but is probably not really that long at all, Jeremy lifts his head and quietly untangles himself from her.

“Better?”

“Yeah, I just… Christine, I’m sorry,” Jeremy says softly, hands twisted in his cardigan. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Jer, you don’t have anything to apologize for,” She says, and then bites her lip, because there’s only ever one thing that brings this on. “What did it say?”

Jeremy shrugs his shoulders, still staring at his hands. “It’s not important, I just, I realized I never apologized to you for the play and that’s really, really shitty of me.”

Christine shrugs and tries to remember that even if it was a play, it was still a trainwreck to begin with— not exactly a huge loss for the arts. “It’s okay. It was one play, and at least the understudies got some experience? I mean, we’re losing the seniors next year, so we need—”

“Christine, that's not what I mean,” Jeremy says sharply, looking at her with something like desperation. “I— It made you go on stage like that, like, like a puppet or something and…”

He trails off, looking sick.

“Jer, I appreciate the apology, but half the people here got SQUIPed.” She snorts, gives her best reassuring smile, and squeezes his shoulder. “It’s practically a rite of passage.”

“Yeah, but not everyone got used as bait! Christine, it said,” Jeremy swallows, his nails tapping against his pant leg like he’s got to put all his energy into that or he’ll bolt. “It said you’d do  _ anything. _ ”

“Jer, it wasn’t like that.”

“We both know it was.”

Jeremy gives her a long look. Christine swears he’s trying to tell her something with those wide, scared eyes, and she hates she’s never been one for listening.

“Doesn’t that scare you?” He asks quietly, voice almost a whisper. “I could have…”

Christine lets out a long breath, staring at her hands. Everything after the second scene is a blur, the details murky through the haze of the Mountain Dew, just a warm feeling as something with Hillary Clinton’s voice directed her to walk across the stage, put her arms around Jeremy’s neck and  _ listen _ . 

She didn’t fight it though. Maybe it was just because it was easy, or maybe because it was always easy to trust Jeremy, even when it meant putting everything in his hands. She breathes in, lets it go, and smiles because while she might be bad at listening, but if there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s talking. “Jeremy. I know you wouldn’t. Ever.”

Jeremy nods slowly, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “I’m sorry, it’s just… it was in my head for months, and if it thought I’d… do that to you, well, it was right about everything else.”

“Jer. The SQUIP was dumb as hell.”

He pulls back a little, brow furrowed in confusion and lips parted like he’s about to say something, but Christine just squeezes his hand and keeps going. She tries to push all her anxiety and irritation at whatever’s left of that stupid pill, because it’s the reason they’re here, sitting on this staircase when the stage is waiting. “It thought that Michael would leave, thought that Rich wouldn’t try to get rid of it, and that I wouldn’t want to be with you without you being— sorry— kind of a dick, which is bullshit. It didn’t understand us at all, quantum nano-technology or not.”

She takes his hands in hers, and waits until he looks her in the eye. “Jeremy. It was wrong about you.”

Jeremy blinks a few times, and something too shaky to be a smile but too relieved to be a frown spreads across his features. He reaches out, and Christine lets him pull her into a hug, her face pressed against his breast bone. She can hear his heartbeat.

“Thank you— I mean, you’re, god, you’re the best. Christ, I’m so lucky to have you.”

Christine reaches up blindly to pat the back of his head, and manages to hit something that feels like hair, which she’ll count as a victory. “Hey, don’t sell yourself short. You’re pretty rad yourself.”

She can feel the vibration of his chest as he laughs, and she feigns an expression of indignance that no one can see. “Excuse you, I’ll have you know that this guy I kiss is pretty excellent. Nice, sweet, a good kisser—”

Jeremy squawks, and she smiles, hearing the double time of his heart. “The point is, don’t sell yourself short.”

The silence is companionable, and Jeremy doesn’t let go, which is fine, because he smells nice and Christine feels pretty cool with staying here for, well, maybe not forever, but maybe a good fifteen minutes except—

“Christine, where the fuck are yoooo…”

Rich’s voice dwindles and trails off half way through, but Christine and Jeremy are already springing apart. Christine straightens her hair a bit and hopes that she and Jeremy, who is sitting up straight, hands carefully over his lap, look like the picture of innocence. After all, the seniors still tell legends of the poor couple who got The Talk from Mr. Reyes after… pursuing recreational extracurriculars in a dressing room, and even if she thinks they’re lying, the threat is like a sword of awkward Damocles.

Rich walks over, grinning. “Sup, lovebirds.”

“Hi Rich!” She chirps, smiling as Rich saunters over to them, appraising.

“Ay, tall ass, congrats on the score.” Rich extends a hand to a red faced Jeremy, and he high fives him uncertainly. Christine gives him a bit of a look, and Rich grins sheepishly back at her. “Sorry, Chris. Nice score too!”

“Thanks?”

Rich grins, bouncing back on his heels. “So, anyways, Reyes is gonna work himself into a rage-coma if you don’t show up soon, and we really don’t need that to happen again.”

Christine nods, standing, and Jeremy follows. “Yeah, I probably should make sure Michael doesn’t get choked by a USB cable.”

“That’s a good idea,” She says, and watches him hop down the steps, off to god knows where. He stops at the door though, and looks back at her.

“And hey, Christine?” Jeremy’s smile is soft, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Thank you.”

* * *

“Well, an hour let it be then,” Jake amends, hand to his temple. “But I'll have no trifling with your father! All fair and open, do you mind me.”

“I hope, sir, you have ever found that I considered your commands as my pride; for your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been inclination,” Christine soothes, blinking dolefully up at him, the perfect picture of loyalty and deference.

“And done,” Mr. Reyes trills, writing something on his clipboard. “Break for fifteen minutes while I consult with the tech crew!”

Christine drops the pose, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding as she watches Mr. Reyes prance off to go badger Michael and Chloe about the missing fans or something. “So…”

“Yeah,” Jake grins, preternaturally straight teeth gleaming under the stage lights. “So. Hey Christine.”

“Hey, Jake.”

There’s a moment of, well it’s not quite awkward, but the silence between them is definitely… stiff. Jake bites his lip, and Christine does her best to maintain eye contact as the quiet drags on.

“I was just thinking… do you wanna do another run through?” He says casually, and Christine fidgets with the fabric of her skirt.

She likes Jake, she really does. He’s a genuinely friendly guy who manages to come to theater whenever it doesn’t overlap with archery, and at least he tries to make up for his absences with extra practice, but sometimes she can’t help but remember their… relationship, if it could be called that. It’s hard to forget that constant struggle to be noticed, the pressure to be good enough for his spotlight, and that cold moment she realized, on his couch in a crowd of drunk teenagers, that Jake wasn’t going to come back with that cup of punch, that she was never going to be good enough to hold his gaze. She tries to leave that in the past, she swears she does, because everyone else has, and the whole bitter, scorned woman thing makes her feel like Katherine without all the awesome parts, but letting go is more difficult than she wants to admit.

“Sorry Jake, I told Jeremy I’d help him look for the cravats,” She smiles, shrugging.

Jake’s grin doesn’t drop, thank god. “Cool! See ya in fifteen!”

Christine slips through the door in the right wing, padding down the hallway to storage room tucked underneath the stairs. She has vivid memories of the drama club’s all out war to commandeer it from the janitors in freshman year— she personally likes to believe that it was her petition that got the cleaning crew to finally hand over the keys. They’ve put it to pretty good use, and now the space is filled with racks of gaudy costumes instead of bottles of cleaning fluid.

Jeremy, of course, is in the very back corner, sandwiched between the costumes from  _ A Streetcar Named Desire _ and  _ Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat _ , which they performed mostly to redeem themselves in the eyes of the PTA after their somewhat sacrilegious take on  _ Jesus Christ, Superstar _ .

“Hey Jer,” She says, gently prodding his side with her elbow.

He jumps a little, sees who it is, and smiles. “Hi Christine. How’d the rehearsal go after I left?”

“Great! Mr. Reyes didn’t start hyperventilating and shouting at us in Spanish this time, so I’m counting as a victory!”

Jeremy laughs into his palm. “Yeah, you were great up there. I think that little flourish thing you did with the fan—” he waves his hand for effect— “that really sold it.”

“Thanks Jer,” Christine says, skimming her eyes over the shelving pressed against the back wall, reading over the scribbled labels on the shoeboxes. “Did you try the red box on the right— no not that one, top row, yes! That one.”

Jeremy doesn’t even have to stand on tiptoe to pull the box out. He sits on the bench next to the shelves, the box next to him, and Christine sits next to that. Carefully, he eases the lid off, and wonders of wonders, there’s the cravats, neatly folded away.

“Huh, thanks,” Jeremy says, pushing the lid back on. “So, any advice for the stuff in act two?”

“Getting anxious?” She teases. “Stage spooks? Fight or flight a fluttering? Old nervous system acting up?”

“First of all, why would you say it like that, and second, Christine, we both know that I don’t have a nervous system. I  _ am  _ a nervous system.”

Christine snorts. “Anyways, I think you can ease up on the stutter as the play goes on? That would probably make Marlow and Kate getting together feel a tad more natural, because then he doesn’t seem so nervous around her? I leave it to your good judgement.”

“Thanks,” Jeremy says, smiling at his feet. “Just a little nervous, that’s all.”

“C’mon Jer,” She says, and puts on her best Miss Hardcastle voice, pulling her face into the very picture of a demure gentlewoman. “You taught me to expect something extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the description.

Jeremy ducks his head, blushing, and quietly picks up the box of cravats and places it on his lap, nails scratching the cardboard lightly. “Thank you.”

“Your welcome,” She says, taking his hand. The nerves of her first performances have faded, but she still remembers the way dad had soothed her before she went on stage, soft and reassuring. She hopes she has half that calmness. “You’re going to do wonderful, Jeremy.”

Jeremy’s eyes flick up to something behind her, and somehow he gets even redder. “I’m going to uh— wash my microphone or deliver these cravats or something, uh, loveyouChristineseeyouintenbye!”

He scrambles up, and Christine watches him go. She wonders if he hit his leg on something again— he’s walking kind of funny— and then turns her attention to the figure standing in the doorway. “Hey Michael!”

“Christine,” He sighs, sitting in the space Jeremy just left. He looks decided frazzled, and Christine frowns. She hopes Mr. Reyes doesn’t have him chasing after old parts that have already crumbled to dust again. “Hi.”

“Is something wrong? I can help with the set if you need, I have a few minutes—”

“No, don’t worry about that, just… Christine, it’s okay,” Michael says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, and Christine wonders where he’s going with this, especially since she’s never really heard him this dour. “I’m really glad you make him happy, but do you have to this backstage?  _ During Tech Week _ ?”

Christine blinks, confused, but Michael’s on a roll, waving his hands like a composer. “I mean seriously, I’m glad Jeremy’s getting some, but if you make me clean… fluids off the walls of the soundroom, I will kill you both.”

“Michael!” She admonishes. “I would never bring soda into the soundroom!”

A long moment passes, and Michael’s face looks kind of like a stop light, trading stunned silence for disbelief for suspicoun and then settling on frustraion.

“I’m serious here!” Michael half says, half shouts, face as red as his hoodie. “I know what you’re doing, Jeremy knows what you're doing, and you  _ definitely  _ know what you’re doing. Stop fucking in the wings, okay?”

“What.”

“What!?”

Michael, well, it’s not angry enough to count as a glare, but the look he gives her is quintessentially exasperated. “Stop lying about your weird praise kink thing and let Jeremy get through a rehearsal without a hard on! I’m asking you this as his friend, and the guy who will get in trouble if you two do it on the prop pieces!”

“Michael,” She says slowly, “A. We aren’t having sex, and B. What’s a praise kink?”

He looks at her with what can only be described as dawning horror. “Oh my god.”

“Michael, seriously, what are you talking about?”

“I’m not doing this. I’m not,” Michael groans into his hands, and tries to get up.

Christine shoots her hand out to grab the sleeve of his shirt. “Michael, I can’t stop doing something if I don’t know what it is!”

He levels a long look at her. “Can’t you just google it?”

“Out of battery.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed,” She agrees. “Now are you going to tell me what the fresh heck you’re talking about.”

Michael gives a single, labored sigh, and sits. “Jesus Christ. So. Uh, a kink is when you—”

“Michael, I know what a kink is. Rich told me.”

“Then why do you need me to explain this?! Ask him!”

“Because,” She says slowly, trying to push down her annoyance, because Michael’s stalling and trying to lead this conversation in circles. “Rich would make this weird and I don’t have an encyclopedic knowledge of fetishes!”

“Neither do I!” Michael groans, looking very, very tired. “The point is, Jeremy gets off on pretty people telling him he’s doing a good job, so stop doing that before he trips on a boner and falls off the stage and Reyes has another theater related heart attack!”

“I’m pretty sure those were seizures, Michael.”

“I don’t know, you people just started screaming and falling down,” Michael groans, looking halfway to pulling his hair out. “The point is, quit getting him off while we’re trying to work!”

Christine feels her face heat up. “I’m not getting him off!”

Michael gives her a long, piercing look. “Yes, you really, really are.”

Christine’s about to protest, but then she remembers Jeremy’s flush when she compliments him, the way his breathing goes heavy with every word, and how his eyes trace the curve of her lips, her neckline and hips whenever she leans in after a run through to congratulate him on a particularly good line read.

“Fuck, you’re right.”

Michael nods sagely. “Christine, I’m always right. Especially about Jeremy.”

Christine shrugs, because yeah, that’s pretty fair. She’s come to accept that Michael is sort of part of the Jeremy package, and honestly, it’s started to become a selling point, especially when it comes to blackmail. This could generously be called blackmail, right? 

Either way, Michael is basically a wikipedia for Jeremy Heere, which is really impressive considering—

“Wait,” Christine says. “How do  _ you  _ know this?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

Michael gives her a long look.

“Trust me, Chris. You really, really don’t,” Michael deadpans, and flicks his hand at her. “Now go practice with Jake before Reyes has a heart attack  _ or  _ a seizure. And stay out of my sound room!”

* * *

“So, boy, take her; and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife,” Jake says, smiling at Jeremy, and Christine beams as she takes his hand. The moment feels like it lasts forever, and then the lights dim and the audience explodes into cheers and clapping.

Christine stands there on stage for a moment, basking in the noise, but then Jeremy’s gently pulling her to the wings as the curtains slide shut in front of them and the lights flicker on so nobody trips over the set pieces.

There's a short, utterly heart pounding moment where everybody’s clustered in between the curtains, just out of the view of the audience, and Christine holds her breath right up until Michael waves for her and Jeremy to go out, because the best part is coming.

Christine loves bows, or as Jake insists they’re called, “Victory Dances”, loves the bright stage lights in her eyes, the way the noise surrounds her, loud and heady, lifts her up and up until there’s nothing else that matters, and it’s just her, the center of attention.

Jeremy’s hand in hers is new though. She likes it.

The moment doesn't last long enough, but she doubts that it ever could. She’s still high on the bright lights and cheering as she lugs her backpack to the bathroom, Jenna, and Brooke trailing behind.

“You two did great out there!” She says as Brooke helps unlace the corset— a necessity, of course. After last the play, the only thing allowed to not be period is Jake’s braces, and it’s not like it’s super uncomfortable, just tight on the hips. Still, it feels good to have it off— being able to bend over is an undervalued virtue.

Brooke smiles unabashedly. She seems happier after the play, well, not this play, The Play, but that’s semantics. “Thank you— Chloe helped me practice my lines, so you should really thank her.”

Jenna nods, grinning, and pulls out her phones, pulling the two of them over for a selfie, careful to keep the picture above the neckline, because no one's really gotten to the part of changing that involves putting on street clothes.

“Put the dolphin emoji— no that’s the whale one— yes, right there!” Christine instructs.

Jenna gives her a look, brow quirked. “What’s the story behind that?”

Christine shrugs and grins. “Michael said they’re Jeremy’s favorite animal?”

Jenna gives a little smile, and Brooke quirks her lips, and Christine feels her stomach swoop. “Oh, uh. Sorry Brooke.”

“It’s fine,” Brooke shrugs, and gives a smile that looks like she borrowed it from Chloe. “I think I’m done letting guys define me.”

Christine is pretty sure that there’s a story there. It’s the same feeling she gets with Jeremy or Rich sometimes, but she’s not sure she’s really qualified to poke into Jeremy’s ex’s lives, and she isn’t about to let their group’s soap opera-esque love tangle it ruin opening night. That’s why she just laughs and shouts “Preach!”, high fiving both of them, because female friendship apparently means standing around in your underwear in a school bathroom and endorsing each other's autonomy, or something. 

The air clears a bit after that, and Christine shimmies into her favourite sleeper dress and hoodie. The dress is sort of a petrol green, not nearly as bright as she usually goes for, but the knit is even softer than when Dad first bought it, so it’s perfect for just chilling. The hoodie makes up for the color deficiency a bit, at least. It’s sort of a hot mess of neon colorblocking with a giant Lisa Frank patch Michael extracted from some vintage thrift store and presented to her for Christmas. She’s not really sure if it was a joke, because Michael’s sense of irony and sincerely liking trash is incomprehensible, but she wears it everywhere anyways.

Brooke, her and Jenna walk out into the hallway behind the auditorium like three half asleep supermodels who look like they just ran a marathon and are strutting purely on muscle memory and that weird buzzy, manic feeling that comes with being awake way later than you should be. Chloe waves from the little table with a few bags of snacks, and Christine smiles as Brooke runs over. The only thing almost as good as bows is celebrating opening night.

The unofficial, backstage cast party is sort of a blur. Christine talks to everyone, gushes over the lighting to a somewhat startled Michael, drinks three cups of Fanta from a beer hose Rich pulled from… somewhere and makes sure to say goodbye to each of the freshmen as their parents drag them off to sleep, or something. Christine doesn’t need to sleep, which is what she tells Jeremy, but she finally relents and lets him pull her down to sit against the wall. It doesn’t matter how much he looks like a worried puppy, she is not overstimulated, and does  _ not  _ need to calm down, what are you talking about—

* * *

“Hey, thanks,” Jeremy says softly from somewhere above her. “Yeah, she just uh, tuckered herself out?”

She hears Michael laugh, and the gentle crinkle of something paper. The boombox Jake straight up grabbed from his locker is quieter now, playing something autotuned and soft, and she can hear Brooke and Jenna talking in the background.

With a groan, Christine opens her eyes and pulls her head off Jeremy’s shoulder. He smiles at her, and Michael, who’s sitting across from them, waves a hand in greeting. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Chris.”

She sticks her tongue out. “Quit telling people I’m dead, you dork!”

“Harsh words,” Michael cries, pressing a hand to his forehead dramatically. “I might swoon like a southern bell, or a tiny theater major!”

Christine is about to point out that she could probably deadlift him, because she is a five foot tall lean mean acting machine, but Jeremy just sighs fondly and pushes a cup of water into her hands, along with some chips from the paper plate balanced in his lap. “Both of you are proper southern ladies okay? Now drink this.”

Christine snorts and takes a few long sips from the cup, because it’s not like Jeremy telling her to drink things has ever ended poorly. She sets the solo cup on the ground gently, wiping her lips.

“How are you doing?” He asks, smiling so softly Christine’s heart skips a beat. 

“I’m good. Thank you.”

There's a long moment of silence, and Christine leans her head against his shoulder.

“So,” He says, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Do you think I could catch a ride home with you? I mean, Michael’s offered, but I’m kind of ready to head out now?”

Christine sort of wonders if this is a ploy to get her out of here incase she gets that overstimulated again, but it’s probably a good idea. She grabs her duffel bag and helps Jeremy up.

“I see how it is, you two,” Michael says, waggling his eyebrows, and on cue, Rich woops from where he’s lying on a pile of backpacks. “Be safe, kids.”

Jeremy sputters and goes bright red, Christine laughs a little awkwardly and drags him out to the parking lot. She picked him up from his house earlier, so now it’s just a matter of finding her car. Unfortunately, it’s a stupid, stubbornly dour black sedan, so it’s pretty much invisible in the darkness.

Christine doesn’t really look that hard, because she can barely see over the tops of most of the cars there, and there are some benefits to dating the fourth tallest boy in her grade. She instead opts to look at him, and she can’t help the smile that spreads across her face. Even like this, in an old Nasa tee shirt, a battered cardigan and a pair of sweatpants, a little sleepy eyed from being on stage all night, his brow furrowed as he scans the parking lot, he looks beautiful. She—

She wants to kiss him. Go to college with him. Live in the same dorm with him, and dance on the same stage, and take him home to meet all her cousins and relatives, and adopt three cats and—

Oh.

_ Oh,  _ she thinks, looking up at his face, bathed in the glow of the streetlights.  _ I think I might be in love with him. _

Shakespeare once said that love is a wonderful, terrible thing, and looking at Jeremy now as he blinks his eyes and points to her car, tucked behind a tree in the corner, she thinks she understands.

“Are you okay?” Jeremy asks. “I can drive, if you want.”

“Yeah, I’m—” _ in love with you _ — “great, actually.”

Jeremy smiles, and she takes his hand and leads him to the car. She opens the door to the backseat, and he sits and doesn’t question when she slips into the seat next to him, shutting the door behind them and throwing her hoodie into the front seat. The roof light flickers on after a second, and then it’s just the two of them.

“Hey,” He says. “Uh, good party?”

“Yeah,” She says, and then, just because she can, “It was better because you were there.”

Pink spreads over his face, and he laughs a little. Christine blinks, because now Michael’s words from yesterday have joined the chorus of  _ I think I might be in love with him _ rattling around her brain, and that’s not a very good combination, especially with how cute Jeremy looks like this, one hand up to hide his smile.

Well, Christine never said she wasn’t impulsive.

Here goes nothing. Heh. Heere.

“Jeremy,” She says, looking up at him through her lashes, and only partly because he’s two heads taller than her, “I didn’t get to tell you how good you did out there, did I?”

“Oh, uh—” Jeremy says, fidgeting with the hem of his tee shirt. “No?”

“Well, Jeremy, I just want you to know that that was the single most  _ wonderful _ performance of Charles Marlow I’ve ever seen,” She purrs, and god this feels a little unfair, how just the words makes him exhale shakily, sit up straighter and listen to her like his life depends on it, but she can’t feel too bad about it.

“Better than the Ralph Richardson version?” He croaks.

“ _ Sooo _ much better,” She says, and Jeremy whimpers a little bit, and suddenly she understands exactly why Chloe does the whole flirting thing, because god, the seductress is a  _ fun _ character to play, especially if it garners this reaction from her audience. “Tom Courtenay has  _ nothing  _ on you.”

Jeremy swallows thickly.

“I think,” She breathes, inching closer to him and putting a hand on his thigh, “That you really captured the duality of the character and totally differentiated between his demeanor around Kate and the servant girls, and that—” She reaches out to put what could be generously called a friendly hand on his shoulder, letting her thumb trace the line of his throat as his adam’s apple bobs up and down— “Shows a really indepth and  _ remarkable  _ understanding of the character.”

“Christine—” He, well he doesn’t say it so much as moans it, voice cracking on her name, and then she’s got her hands on his collar, tugging him down into a long, heated kiss. His eyes flutter shut, and Christine bites his lower lip, swallowing his groan. Her hand skims up his leg to settle on the bone of his hip— oh, hey, he’s hard.

He pulls away for a moment, and for a second she’s worried she’s crossed one of those weird invisible lines that ends with Jeremy shaking and apologizing, and Christine wondering what about her sitting on his lap could make him clam up like this, but he’s panting, not hyperventilating, so it’s all good. “H-how’d you know?”

“Michael.”

“Oh god,” He says, burying his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ, I’m going to kill him.”

“No you’re not,” She smiles, pulling his hands away from his face and god, he really is a vision like this— red faced, eyes black with lust, hair rucked up despite all the product Brooke put into it. She clambers over the weird divider that separates the left and right footwells, settling in close enough she’s practically in his lap. That’s good, because it makes it easier to lean in and kiss his neck, scraping her teeth against the skin. He shivers under her, letting his head fall back so there's nothing keeping her from biting her way down his throat, and yeah, stretching out his collar to get at his clavicle is really awkward.

“Yeah, this isn’t working,” She says, untangling their legs. “Take off your shirt, Jer.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

The whole let’s-stop-kissing thing is honestly a bit disheartening, especially since Jeremy gets his head stuck in his shirt halfway through. Christine feels sort of awkward sitting around in what’s basically an entire outfit, and while she’s pretty sure that no one's going to come out here at this hour, she really doesn’t want to be completely naked and get like, arrested for indecent exposure or something. She’s not really sure if a bra and panties counts as indecent, especially since like, bikinis don’t, but the thought of somebody interrupting them is honestly terrifying, and she’s going to stop thinking about it before she gets too nervous. Jeremy has finally gotten his head unstuck, so there's no time for stage fright.

Jeremy looks uncertainly at her, hugging his arms. He’s pale under the car’s light, freckles splashed across his narrow shoulders and hips, flush spread from the tips of his ears down his neck. Her eyes roam the smooth lines of his shoulders and waist hungrily, and he glances away, biting his lip.

“Hey,” She says, and pulls him into a hug, letting her hands trace down his back. She’s seen the scars, of course, pale pink lines dipping above of the hem of his jeans to tangle across his back like unruly tree roots, but it’s sort of the first time she’s seen him like, properly shirtless, so she’s going to savour it. “I’m glad I’m doing— like, whatever we’re doing, because honestly I don’t know what happens next here— with you.”

Jeremy laughs a little bit, and she can feel it wherever they touch, which is, at the moment, an awful lot of places. “I have no idea what we’re doing either so... uh, got any condoms?” 

Christine has to take a moment to snort, because condom is a funny word, and it sounds even funnier coming out of Jeremy’s mouth, and then she actually tries to remember what's in her car.

“Jenna gave me some dental dams as a joke once and I think they’re still in the console-thingie, but like, that’s kind of limiting?” She shrugs, feeling a little guilty, because she’s technically hosting this, even if it’s just in her car. Wow, she is going to lose her virginity in the backseat of her car and that is not bothering her as much as it should. “You don’t have to do like, that. It’s totally cool if you don’t!”

“No, I—” He shifts his arms a little, gesturing something she can’t see— “I think I want to.”

She pulls away for a second to look at him, red faced and biting his lip. “Really?”

Jeremy gives her a smile, a little nervous and very fond. “Really.”

“Oh. Uh, okay!” Her face is hot as she leans over to the console, flicking the lid open and fishing out one of the glossy foil packets, and hands it to Jeremy, who eyes it like a battle plan.

Jeremy doesn’t just like, immediately shove his face into her crotch, which is honestly a relief, because as turned on as she is, she doesn’t think either of them are bold enough to go from zero to a hundred like that. He just kisses her, sweet and gentle like they did after their third date, on the bench outside the little German bakery, and then not so sweetly and he bites her lip. 

Christine lets her hands wander, tracing his spine, dipping beneath his waistband to massage the bones of hips. She drags him in, catching his leg between hers, and can’t help the way she bucks against his thigh, desperate, because even like this, tangled together so intimately, she wants him closer, make him understand that she loves him with her hands and her lips, even if she’s too nervous to say it yet.

Jeremy seems to take her roaming hands as an invitation, sliding his palm up her thigh and under her dress to fumble with her bra. She breaks away for a second to pull it off, and when he meets her lips again and rolls her nipple between his fingers, it’s like an electric shock. Christine keens as he pushes his hand up further to cup her breast, nails scraping gently against the sensitive skin. Jeremy just bites her lip and teases her more, until she’s rolling her hips and rutting against his leg. She wonders if he can tell how wet she is, even through her underwear, but then Jeremy’s hands still and slip down her waist, and the loss of sensation makes her want to curse.

“Can I?” Jeremy asks, hands resting on her hips, and Christine pulls back and lies down on the seat, legs spread lewdly, because the promise of closeness, of  _ more  _ is positively intoxicating. The way he slides her underwear down her thighs is almost painfully slow, or maybe she’s just being impatient, but either way Jeremy sets it on the back dashboard and eases down between her legs.

His hands are warm as he spreads her thighs, and Christine feels incredibly exposed as he settles in closer. Jeremy looks at her, dental dam in hand, and then looks at  _ her _ .

“Are you okay?” She says, hopefully not as anxiously as she feels.

“Yeah, sorry. You’re just, uh, really pretty.” He laughs a little. “Sorry, that sounds really weird? I’m going to shut up now.”

Christine can’t help the goofy smile that spreads across her face as he lifts her knees onto his shoulders. Her toes skim the car’s ceiling as he props her up with his rolled shirt carefully, like she’s something precious. She looks down at him, biting his lip, and after a moment of quiet deliberation, Jeremy leans in and runs his fingers through her folds, gentle as he starts to open her up. She’d be embarrassed about how wet she is already, barely touched but already desperate, but she’s too focused on him to care. Jeremy bites his lip in a way that still manages to be distracting, even as he fans his fingers, spreading her open. After a moment of rustling foil, he carefully lays the dental dam over her.

She can’t help her shaky inhale as he pulls away, because Jeremy looks unimaginably good like this, his face bracketed by her thighs, and just the touch is enough to make her toes curl. A second later, he’s leaning in, skimming his lips down the length her leg to kiss the inside of her knee, the inside of her thigh, the bones of her hips, only pausing to bite a purple bruise in the hollow of her thigh. His hands shift, one moving to hold hers, and the other ghosting down to rub little circles against her waist. Then Jeremy moves his head from where he’s peppering kisses across her hips to press the flat of his tongue against her vulva, and she can’t hold back the moan as he licks a long stripe up her slit to press against her clit.

“Holy shit, Jer.” Her voice is breathy and strained, and Jeremy’s eyes snap up to look at her, like the lights above the center stage, bright blue through his bangs. “You’re really good at this.”

It’s nothing like when she’s done this alone, fingering herself in the shower until her knees shake from overstimulation and she thanks god for the water drowning out her ragged breathing. Jeremy goes slow, tongue flicking across her labia, lips moving across her clit like he’s whispering a prayer and then slipping back down her slit, achingly languid. It’s not enough yet to make her come exactly, but the hot build of pleasure is its own kind of wonderful, shivery-good and too much and too little all at once.

Jeremy’s hand slips from hers, reaching down to tease her entrance. It feels intimate, for lack of a better word, his fingers spreading her open and dipping in, swiping across in between strokes of his tongue. She’s so glad they put the shirt there to help prop her up, because with how she’s twitching under him, she doesn’t think she’d be able to stay up like this on her own. She hooks her ankles together, leaning hard against Jeremy’s shoulders as he drags another gasp from her.

It’s hard to focus like this, each kiss and lick and suck making her squirm and whimper and clench hard around nothing, lightheaded with pleasure. She feels electric and so goddamn close, every slide of his tongue and fingers lighting her on fire. A particularly sharp brush of his lips against her clit as he presses his fingers into her leaves her shaking, sensation narrowed down to his tongue and all the absolutely sinful things it’s doing to her. She bites back another moan and tugs at his hair, pushing him down, and he groans against her, face pressed into her belly. “Please, Jer, you’re good, so good, how is this your first— ah!”

His lips close around around her clit, sucking at it like his life depends on it, and Christine sees stars. Her hips buck against his lips, desperate for pressure, and he obliges, rubbing at the sensitive spot just above her clit until, she can’t see straight, gasping at the ceiling as he thrusts his fingers in and out, letting them catch against the bone of her hips. She can feel her legs shake and tighten around his head as she chants his name like a prayer, and for a single white hot moment, it’s like she’s back on stage, where it’s just him and her, the center of attention.

Christine lies there for a long moment as Jeremy pulls away, crinkling the dental dam into its old packaging. Part of her doesn’t really want to move ever again, even if her thighs are sticky and the position isn’t exactly sleep worthy. The warm, heavy feeling is a little bit like a lazy Saturday morning, but after a moment she sits up anyways, shaking away the haze.

Jeremy meets her eyes guiltily, one hand down his pants, and maybe it’s the afterglow or just sheer affection, but it’s second nature to grin, close the distance and unzip his fly. “C’mere, you.”

Jeremy smiles and lets her pull him in, his arms draped loosely around her waist. Christine lets one hand card through his hair as he rest his head against her shoulder, and lets the other one trail down his ribs to his hips.

“That,” She says softly, hooking her fingers in his waistband, “Was incredible.”

Jeremy’s reply is snatched away by his gasp as she pushes his pants down around his thighs. There's a dark spot on his tented boxers, and Christine rubs her thumb across it, relishing Jeremy’s sharp inhale as she presses down. She skims her fingers around the outline of his cock, hard against the thin fabric, and he whines, desperate.

Christine smiles fondly and slides his boxers down until she can see the smooth curve of his ass, the constellations of freckles dappling his hips, and most pertinently, his dick.

It’s a pretty nice dick, all things considered. The head’s flushed a bright pink, already leaking, it's got a little bit of an upward bend to it, and it’s definitely not pornstar—huge, which is sort of a relief. Christine’s no Sasha Grey, and she doesn’t really want to have one of her kidneys punched out, but Jeremy’s… manageable.

More than manageable. She could definitely manage him, maybe on her bed, or the nice couch in the Heeres’ living room, or—

“Christine?” Jeremy looks at her, and behind the lust clouding his eyes, there’s concern. “You don’t have to, I mean, I can take care of it myself. If you want.”

“No! I’m good!” Christine squeaks, and gives him a long, emphatic stroke that tears a gasp from Jeremy, and sends him falling back against her shoulder. “Uh, was that alright?”

“God, yes, just a lot,” He pants, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “I just— god, please Christine.”

“Shh,” She soothes, smoothing his hair down as he whines into her shoulder. “You were such a good boy. I just want to make you feel as good I did. Now tell me what you need.”

“Just, god,  _ you _ ,” He breathes, voice stuffy, and Christine feels her breath hitch and the vague buzz of arousal at his words. “Please, anything, just  _ touch me _ .”

Christine hums softly, and tries to follow what she remembers from porn and wikipedia and bad fanfiction, sliding her hand from his balls up to the tip, and dipping her fingers into the pre-come dribbling down him and onto his belly. She smears it across his head, and Jeremy gasps as she pushes her fist down to the base. For a second, she worries it’s too much and she’s hurting him, but then he whines, “Please, just,  _ everything,” _ and she does it again and again, faster and faster, until he’s panting into the crook of her neck.

“Come on Jer, you’re doing so good,” She says, and Jeremy’s cock twitches in her hand, leaking more. “You look— god, you look beautiful like this, so unreserved. I wish I got to see you like this more.”

Maybe it’s hormones or afterglow that’s making her this honest, but Jeremy doesn’t seem to mind the cheesiness. He does this sharp little intake of breath that would be cute in any other context but just feels unimaginably lewd here, and Christine can feel something wet on her shoulder. After a moment she leans in to brush her lips across his lashes, kissing away the salt.

“Christine, I— fuck!” He moans as she twists her wrist just right. “I’m close, god—”

“Jeremy, it’s okay,” She says, picking up the pace, a little tighter, a little faster. “You’re so good, just—”

Christine knows she’s going to be hearing that sharp, cracking moan in her head at  _ all  _ the wrong moment for the rest of her life. Jeremy cries out, loud and needy like there’s nothing but the two of them and the backseat of her car, and comes into her fist. She strokes him through it until he’s gasping, tears glistening on his face, but when she moves to pull away, Jeremy catches her hands. “Keep going.” 

Christine does her best to match the pressure and tempo from before, tight strokes and little circles rubbed against the head of his cock. Jeremy bucks his into her fist, sloppy and sharp, and a few more beads of come leak out. Christine runs her thumb through the mess, brushing less than unintentionally against his slit, and Jeremy collapses against her, head lolling back on her shoulder. With one more squeeze, she lets go.

They lay there in a sort of sticky but sated peace. Christine’s not sure when she started breathing this fast, but she notices how it slows from panting to easy little breaths as she buries her nose in Jeremy’s hair.

After a long moment of lying there, quiet, because they just had sex, holy shit, she’s punched the metaphorical card of boning, Jeremy reaches over and grabs his wrinkled tee shirt, stares at the debauched fabric and deems it a lost cause. He wipes his face with the fabric then passes it to Christine.

She takes advantage of her now clean hands to card one through Jeremy’s hair as he shimmies his pants back up. He sighs, and his eyes flutter shut, content.

Christine smiles. It’s strange, how sitting here with his, legs tangled together in the backseat of her sedan, his fingers tracing little patterns against her bare thigh, feels even much more intimate that what they just did.

The roof lamp finally switches off, and she can’t be bothered to turn it back on.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell this was written by someone who has never even gone on a date? Either way, thanks for reading! Again, I'll be seeing the revival on November 11th, so feel free to say hi so long as you don't tell my friends/family I write porn.
> 
> As always, I love comments and kudos, so feel free to click or comment!


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